A long term study of the China Clay region of Mid-Cornwall. 

To be Published one day...

These white crags
Cup waves that rub more greedily
Now half-way up the chasm; you see
Doomed foliage hang like rags;
The whole clay-belly sags.

What scenes far
Beneath those waters: chimney-pots
That used to smoke; brown rusty clots
Of wheels still oozing tar;
Lodge doors that rot ajar.

Those iron rails
Emerge like claws cut short on the dump,
Though once they bore the wagon’s thump:
Now only toads and snails
Creep round their loosened nails.

Those thin tips
Of massive pit-bed pillars - how
They strain to scab the pool’s face now,
Pressing like famished lips
Which dread the cold eclipse.

The Flooded Clay-Pit
Jack Clemo